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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016269">in the circle around the kitchen table</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/animaginaryquill/pseuds/animaginaryquill'>animaginaryquill</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Beholding Avatar Basira Hussain, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Hunt Avatar Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Needs a Hug, M/M, Queerplatonic Relationships, Spoilers for The Magnus Archives Season 5, and turned into 'everyone spills their emotions and fears at everyone else', mostly Hunt-related, this fic started out as 'hear me out - what if Daisy is a big cat'</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:22:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,751</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25016269</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/animaginaryquill/pseuds/animaginaryquill</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>The beast shifts restlessly, moving away from the window as its knife-pointed ears swivel around and it sniffs the air, searching.</p>
  <p>It’s a Hunter. For a moment, Jon thinks that his personal terrors have finally caught up to him, and that their little sanctuary is about to be torn to pieces. </p>
  <p>Then he notices the large starburst scar that blooms on her back.</p>
  <p>“Martin,” he whispers. “We need to call Basira.”<br/></p>
</blockquote>Daisy shows up at the safehouse.
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Basira Hussain &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist &amp; Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>209</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>in the circle around the kitchen table</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many thanks to my lovely betas, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimosaeyes">mimosaeyes</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpie_eater">magpie-eater</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon thought he knew what to expect of the safehouse. He is joking about the kill room – mostly – but this will not be his first time in such a place, and he remembers a brutally stark room lit by bare lightbulbs. He does not expect pleasant comforts.</p><p>Yet, as he fiddles with the tape recorder and checks on the food store while Martin rifles through their duffle bags, it occurs to him that the cabin is… rather nice, actually. </p><p>The floor is rough and layered in dust, certainly, and the kitchen pipes whine and rattle fit to raise the dead when any tap is turned on. The bedroom consists of one bed and nothing else. But there are bright yellow curtains in the windows, an honest-to-god <em>fireplace</em> that takes up half a wall, and a mattress on the bed, which seems like a luxury compared to the camp beds they had been using in the archives. Small, scattered comforts which temper the otherwise hard practicality of the place, down to the contents of the kitchen – there is a box of cocoa powder tucked among the impressive collection of canned foods, and the pasta options include a bag of animal shapes.</p><p>Half the cans claim to be past their expiration date, but somehow not by more than a few months. Well-prepared for one person expecting to return on a timescale of years. Now, however, it is barely enough for two, a thought Jon gratefully seizes on to change the subject when his conversation with Martin turns Jon’s thoughts towards Hunters. Martin mentions going to the village to pick up groceries, and asks him if he’ll be okay here.</p><p>Jon thinks of the retro phone boxes that he can tell Martin can’t help but be charmed by, looks at the peaceful late afternoon sunlight that makes the timber cupboards seem to glow, and reassures him with a smile, <em>I’ll be fine</em>.</p><p>While Martin is away, Jon decides to start on the clean-up. He finds some linens stashed under the bed, lilac and miraculously not completely moth-eaten, and airs them outside on an old clothesline, humming as he goes. Finding the broom gives him a moment of quiet satisfaction when he extracts it from a gap between the cupboards and the wall while successfully ignoring the urge to pull up the floorboard in front of it. A secret for another day. </p><p>As he passes by the window, Jon pauses to look at the clear autumn sky. There is a gentle breeze smoothing out the highland grass, cows dotting the distant hills. The curtains flutter as they catch the wind. Jon notices small white daisies embroidered in the bottom edge.</p><p>He– he has to sit down.</p><p>The wave of exhaustion he hadn’t realised he had been holding back for the past few days crashes over him, and he puts his face into his hands, and heaves. He thinks he wants to scream, but the air already leaving his lungs in great gasps is occupying his whole throat, and he can’t, and he <em>can’t</em>. </p><p>At some indeterminate point, he realises that there is an arm around his shoulders and Martin is speaking to him in low, worried tones.</p><p>“Jon. Hey. Jon. Jon, what’s wrong?”</p><p>Jon takes a deep, shuddering breath. “<em>Daisy</em>.”</p><p>“Oh.” Cloth rustles as Martin sits down fully.</p><p>“I–” Jon’s voice hitches. “Martin, I <em>left</em> them. Basira and Daisy both. They told me to go, and I– there was nothing I could possibly have done otherwise, but. But Daisy’s missing. She’s gone, she’s gone Hunting, I think, and Basira won’t show it but she’s <em>worried</em>. And. I feel like I should be back there, helping her. I can’t help but feel responsible.”</p><p>Martin strokes his back in circles, gently. “You know you’re not.”</p><p>“Maybe, but did I make things worse? I called her to help when Trevor and Julia first came to the institute, and they taunted her. They asked her how long it had been since she last tasted blood. And by calling on her, I gave her a target.” Jon fights down the upwelling of nausea in his chest. “If– if I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have spent all that time struggling with the call of the Hunt. Maybe it would have been easier for her to resist, the second time.”</p><p>“Daisy has survived an entity before, when you saved her from the Buried.”</p><p>“I don’t know if there’s enough of her to come back, this time.” Jon says, quiet.</p><p>Martin cups his cheek, soft and tender. Jon finally lifts his head, and covers Martin’s hand with his own.</p><p>“I… wasn’t there,” Martin says, “But just because she’s given herself to the Hunt, doesn’t mean she won’t stop trying to leave. Daisy has anchors, you and Basira, and she will want to come back.”</p><p>Jon looks into Martin’s face, open and earnest. Martin, who is here with him now, who was so far into the Lonely, who has the same undercurrent of determination in his voice that Daisy had in hers.</p><p>He sighs. “Okay.” </p><p>Martin kisses the top of his forehead. It sends tingles all the way down his spine.</p><p>“Right. You’re going to rest now. I don’t need Beholding to know you haven’t slept since we left London.”</p><p>“I’m not done cleaning.” Jon protests. Grocery bags, he notices, have been haphazardly dropped near the front door, and a few oranges have rolled out onto the dusty floor.</p><p>“We can clean up tomorrow.” Martin tells him firmly. </p><p>“But–”</p><p>“Jon. You need to rest. You have been taking care of me since– since we left the Institute. Now let me do the same for you.”</p><p>Jon takes one last breath. “Alright,” he releases it. “But we need to check the house for eyes first. Pictures, any representation. Like I said, if Elias wanted to find us he probably could, but we’d better damn well make it as difficult as we can for the bastard.”</p><p>“Cheers to that.” Martin’s smile is crooked as he holds out his hand, and pulls Jon upright when he takes it. “I’ll make us some dinner after, and then we get some sleep.”</p><p>They slice up the covers of two trashy romance novels that were stashed behind an old, boxy radio in the kitchen (Martin makes noises of disbelief, Jon tells him about Daisy’s love of the Archers and tuning in to broadcasts over dinner in the archives pantry, and gets to be entertained by Martin’s flabbergasted <em>No!</em>). After some hesitation, Jon cuts the embroidered daisies off the curtains. Day’s eyes – he doesn’t know whether it counts, but the idea that this fear alone could give them power is lodged into his head. He will not run this risk. He can’t bear to burn them, as Martin did with the book covers, so he folds up the strips of fabric and carefully tucks them under the dividers in the cutlery drawer. </p><p>If he has a chance of returning them to Daisy, he’ll know where they are.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>The end of the world is patently awful.</p><p>This does not even begin to cover it, but Jon is out of superlatives for the unceasing torment that is his every moment. He sits, safe in these walls, while a universe of fear and agony dances through his mind and shrieks for his attention, or begs for his ignorance. It does not matter. The Beholding reveals all, visions of hell within and without the monsters that roam beyond the confines of the cabin, beneath the staring sky. </p><p>Sometimes – when Martin is asleep, if he is lucky – Jon finds his awareness elsewhere, many elsewheres, in an extended mockery of his dreams from before the Change. He is as many-eyed as ever, on and around and inside him, drifting through landscapes of horror to witness those that were once people drowning, rotting, burning, bloodied, alone, screaming, scared. When he returns to himself Jon usually clings tight to Martin, and he gets to be held close while Martin murmurs soothingly into his hair. Sometimes it even helps, a little.</p><p>This time, Martin is not there.</p><p>Jon bolts upright from the bed and rushes into the common room. At first he sees only another empty room, then he Sees Martin crouched under the kitchen table. A wisp of fog curls at his ankles. Cold drops into the pit of Jon’s stomach.</p><p>When Martin notices Jon, the fog recedes, and his outline fades into more mundane sight. He lifts his finger to his lips and points at the window.</p><p>There is a humongous shadow blocking out the sky. It turns. Jon ducks back into the bedroom doorway as a snarling maw and a dozen acid eyes come into view. There is bristling bloody fur raised on lean, wiry haunches, and multiple thickly muscled tails lash at the air. The beast shifts restlessly, moving away from the window as its knife-pointed ears swivel around and it sniffs the air, searching.</p><p>It’s a Hunter. For a moment, Jon thinks that his personal terrors have finally caught up to him, and that their little sanctuary is about to be torn to pieces. </p><p>Then he notices the large starburst scar that blooms on her back.</p><p>“Martin,” he whispers. “We need to call Basira.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>The yellow door all but falls off its hinges when Basira slams out of it at a full run. </p><p>“<em>Where is she</em>.” Her eyes take in Jon and Martin sitting frozen at the kitchen table, then dart towards the window, and she makes a growling noise. She drops her pack as she whirls around and barges out the door – taking the real front door, with no hesitation – and the second slam rings in the surprised silence.</p><p>“You’re very welcome, Basira.” Helen says as the yellow door swings more quietly closed, revealing her leaning casually on the wall behind it. “Absolutely no trouble at all. If you’ve enjoyed your experience travelling with us, please remember to rate and review, it’s so important to small businesses like me.”</p><p>“Really though, thanks for getting her here.” Martin says, sounding much too genuine for Jon’s liking, and Jon’s distrustful huff is entirely ignored.</p><p>“Oh, I’m quite happy to help. I do enjoy dropping by this little home you’ve made for yourselves. Look at the two of you, huddled together having tea! How positively <em>domestic</em>.”</p><p>“Would you like some?” Martin offers.</p><p>“How– Don’t offer the eldritch abomination <em>tea</em>!” Jon sputters.</p><p>“If <em>you’re</em> having tea, I don’t see why can’t I, thank you.” Helen sniffs, already holding out a gaudy multi-coloured mug that is suddenly dangling from her over-stretched fingers. Its pattern seems to be continually shifting, kaleidoscopic and dizzying. Martin squints at it as he gingerly takes it from her, and fails to hide his sigh of relief when it stays mug-shaped in his hands and doesn’t do anything weirder. Jon begrudgingly does not stop Martin from pouring out the kettle.</p><p>“Since you didn’t ask, we had a lovely journey up here.” Helen continues. “Basira is a little, hmm, tickly, but she isn’t as much Beholding as Jon yet, and she wasn’t paying attention to me very much. Which I have to admit, is somewhat of a disappointment! I made some very nice geometric decor in my corridors for her, even put in the effort to be a winding forest path for a bit. But no, she didn’t bother taking the scenic route, just barged through just about as direct as it gets. Oh, that looks <em>wonderful</em>.” She grins when Martin hands back her mug, now gently steaming. “I haven’t had tea in so long.”</p><p>She sips at it. Some of the tea scuttles out the side of her mug, making an escape into her hair. </p><p>“Bracing. I like it.” She plucks out the squiggly mass and pops it into her mouth, crunching. Martin checks their own mugs apprehensively, but Jon’s already glared their tea into submission. </p><p>“Why do you bother to help us, though.” Jon folds his arms. “What’s in it for you, Distortion?”</p><p>“It’s <em>Helen</em>, dear Archivist. And I told you last time, I <em>do</em> hope we can be friends. You know what the kids say, maybe the real friends are the apocalypses we start along the way! Or something like–”</p><p>“Not his fault.” Martin cuts in. “First, basic rule of eldritch friendship! Don’t be rude. That goes for you too, Jon. She did help, you know.”</p><p>“So kind.” Helen bares her teeth, Cheshire. “You <em>truly</em> don’t deserve him, Jon.”</p><p>“He most certainly does!” Martin snaps. Jon blinks. He’s not sure he’s seen Martin actually lose his temper in person before. “Don’t you insult either of us by saying that. Or, how about, maybe deserving doesn’t come into it! Maybe it doesn’t matter whether anyone deserves anyone else! We have each other, I do what I can for him, and I know he does the same, and that’s <em>that</em>!”</p><p>Helen actually looks delighted with this outburst. “Goodness! That’s <em>quite</em> a backbone in you, how sweet. There’s always something new and fun with you two.” She drains her mug. “Well, as lovely as tea and catching up has been, I shall have to make a move now. This business won’t run itself! Ta!” </p><p>She waves cheerily as she exits, then the wall once again possesses only one door. </p><p>Martin flops back into his chair. “I’m regretting the tea now. At least it didn’t stay tea, I guess?”</p><p>Jon reaches over and grips his hand. “Thank you, Martin.”</p><p>“Oh.” Martin’s nose turns slightly pink. “It’s nothing, really, it’s just what I think. So. I’m– I won’t drop it, okay? You can keep fighting me on this, but this is <em>not your fault</em>, and we’ve got each other.”</p><p>Jon does not trust himself to respond with words. He circles the back of Martin’s hand with his thumb a couple of times before sighing and getting up from the table. “We better go make sure Basira is alright out there.”</p><p> </p><p>They find Basira near the crest of a small hill and holding her arms in front of her placatingly, while the beast that was – is – Daisy growls, crouched low and threatening, fur standing all on end.</p><p>“It’s me!” She’s shouting, above the howl of the apocalyptic winds. “Daisy, it’s <em>me</em>, I know you said– but I don’t want to hurt you, I know you’re in there somewhere! Daisy!”</p><p>As Jon and Martin hurry up the hill, the beast catches sight of them. She snarls as she turns, lunges. </p><p>“Daisy! No!” Basira flings herself into her path. The creature skids and roars as she raises up to her full and terrifying height. Basira only just barely manages to tumble out of the way as huge paws come crashing down, driving into the soil where she was a moment before.</p><p>She stares at the crushed ground, wide-eyed and silent. Her hands tremble as she reaches towards her leg. Jon grabs her arm before she can pull out the knife. </p><p>“Run!” He yells. Martin has hauled her up by her other arm and is shoving her in the direction of the cottage as the creature screams again. All three sprint full pelt downhill, not stopping to see if she is after them – Jon knows she is. They scramble into the cabin and just manage to slam the door into her face.</p><p>She howls, but there is no sound of her body hitting the outside of the cabin, no indication that she is trying to force her way in. Martin and Jon collapse onto the floor. Basira remains standing, breathing hard, watching.</p><p>They hear another low snarl. Some snuffling. Then finally, the pad of heavy footfalls retreating.</p><p>Basira crumples to the floor between them, still staring at the closed door. </p><p>“I was almost about to kill her.” She whispers.</p><p>“No,” Jon tells her. “You don’t have to.”</p><p>“She has to– she <em>has</em> to be in there.” Basira’s voice is brittle, eyes shining. “She didn’t attack <em>me</em>. Not at first. If– if she was really gone, she would have.”</p><p>“She didn’t mean to, just now.” Martin says from her other side.</p><p>Basira doesn’t answer. She picks herself up, dusts off her pants. </p><p>“Less sure about that,” she says, after a pause. “But I’m getting her back. You hear? <em>I’m getting Daisy back</em>.” </p><p>She glares down at Jon and Martin until they make the requisite noises of assent. She squares her shoulders, then moves towards her discarded pack.</p><p>“Now show me where I can put my things.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Over the next few days, or at least cycles of alternating dark and less-dark, Basira tries again and again to confront the creature. There are no more close calls, but that doesn’t mean there are no attacks, only that they are clearly telegraphed and Basira is always able to dodge them.</p><p>“I think she can tell it’s me, or at least someone she doesn’t actually want to hurt.” Basira gripes as she paces the common room, where she has been not so much sleeping as taking fitful naps on the duvet Martin had sadly surrendered to her use. It’s one of the times when the creature-that-was-is-Daisy is stalking around the cabin, periodically hissing threateningly, though she never actually attempts to get in. Basira’s frustrated pacing seems to vaguely parallel the creature’s circling beyond the walls. </p><p>“I don’t <em>Know</em> how to get her back, what is the use of all this knowledge if I can’t do <em>anything</em> with it–”</p><p>“What do you– you said, Know.” Jon looks up sharply as the tape recorder in his hands whirs to life.</p><p>“I’m like <em>you</em> now,” she grouches. “Sometimes I just Know things. Not every random bit of information, but things like if someone has something I need, or if a place had a hidden secret. Especially if it’s related to something I’m actively searching for, I think. That’s why I trusted Helen at all, I Knew she could take me to Daisy. I could <em>scent</em> Daisy, all the way through her corridors. Happy?”</p><p>“Not really.” A word occurs to him. A title, he realises. “The Eye calls you the Detective.”</p><p>“Bloody Elias. Bloody Magnus.” Basira mutters.  </p><p>Jon considers the intersection between himself and her newfound connection to Beholding. “I should have information you want. Maybe even all of it, given the whole Archivist thing.”</p><p>“Yeah, you’re like an annoying pop-up ad blinking in capitals <em>ASK ME ANYTHING!!!</em> But I can’t compel people. Tried, doesn’t work.”</p><p>“You could just ask.” Jon says mildly.</p><p>The look Basira gives him is priceless. </p><p>“Wow.” Martin chips in from his seat by the fireplace. “And here I thought Jon was the one with help issues.”</p><p>“Shut up, Martin.” She sighs. “Okay, fine, how do I get Daisy back?”</p><p>Static fuzzes in Jon’s head in response to the question. “There… doesn’t seem to be anything specific. That might be why you don’t already know it. All I get is that Daisy has to be the one to understand, and to choose.”</p><p>“That’s the problem.” Basira’s growl, Jon thinks, is distinctly more frightening than the ones simultaneously issuing from outside. “I can’t get through to her. Tell me something useful, for fuck’s sake. <em>How can I make her understand</em>.” </p><p>“I think,” Martin speaks before Jon needs to flee from her wrath. “I know something we can try.”</p><p> </p><p>The creature is glaring at them from a little ways down the dirt path that once led into the village when they leave the cabin. As they approach, she starts up a low menacing hiss. They stop when she begins to sweep her tails from side to side, a warning. </p><p>“Go on.” Martin tilts his head towards Basira.</p><p>She takes a moment, grips Jon’s hand, lets out a breath. “Daisy. Look. What do you see?”</p><p>She snarls in response, hackles raised higher. Much as she had all the previous times Basira had attempted to reason with her.</p><p>“This is stupid.” Basira murmurs under her breath.</p><p>The creature moves, suddenly, and she is right in front of them, triple rows of teeth clear and sharp and dripping and the roar coming from the back of her throat drowns out the world.</p><p>None of them move. Jon can feel Martin paralysed with terror, both through his frozen grip and through the fear slicing right through his skull. Basira simply looks despondent. Her hand twitches. She does not reach down, just continues to stare at the terrifying being screaming bloody murder into her face.</p><p>That sound, Jon realises, belies fear. There is fear everywhere in this new world, and none so pressing in this moment as the terror that surges within the Hunter. The bugle call of the pounding Hunt sounds all throughout her bestial soul, and it is tearing her apart, it strikes deep within her heart and she does – she does not – she <em>wants</em> this chase to end, she knows she is close but for all her eyes she herself is blind, she cannot <em>find</em>, and all the while the urge to rip the world apart searching roils and rages and bears down upon her and <em>that</em>, that scares her. That she will not do.</p><p>But Jon knows that she cannot stop, cannot fight against the choking grasp of fear. He knows her struggle to breathe, the quiet, fierce desperation to persist.</p><p>That’s what lets Jon recognise her.</p><p>“Daisy,” Jon says. “I see you.” </p><p>There’s no compulsion behind his words, but her many eyes grow wider, and she pulls back slightly, the pitch of her snarls turning from rage into bewilderment.</p><p>Basira takes a deep breath. Jon knows she’s seen the same as he has. Maybe more.</p><p>“I see <em>you</em>,” Basira tells Daisy.</p><p>The creature goes still. Hot, animal breaths wash over them as her eyes flicker between the three of them, holding hands, standing in a row before her. </p><p>A long moment passes in which the only sound is the eternal screams of a desolate world. </p><p>Then the creature sinks to the ground, gradually. Her form seems to shrink, fur fading from dark blood red to a shade with a bit more grey in it, a bit more washed out. Her great head falls into her paws, and she stays there.</p><p>“Daisy?” Basira reaches out a hand, but halts when she emits a low rumble. Daisy makes no other move.</p><p>After a while, Jon gently tugs on her jacket. “Come on.”</p><p>Basira reluctantly goes with them into the cabin, casting glances backwards the whole way.</p><p>She is still there when they look out again, and still the next few times after that. But as some manner of dusk begins to fall, instead of the hulking silhouette of a terrifying beast, there is a thin, crumpled, but wholly human form on the ground.</p><p>Martin is the one who brings out the blanket, and Basira carries back Daisy’s unconscious body wrapped in it. They lay her out in front of the fire, limp, though breathing shallowly. Later, lying in the darkness that passes for night with Martin dozing next to him, Jon hears a soft “Basira?”, followed by the sounds of two people quietly sobbing. He shifts closer into Martin’s warmth, and closes his eyes.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>One of the first things Daisy does is to show them the hidden trapdoor among the rafters, and the ladder beneath the floorboards in front of the kitchen cupboards. The attic, unlike the sparse rooms below, is completely stuffed full with all manner of things, including a trunk containing clothes for Daisy and two air mattresses Basira sets up in the common room. Jon tries to offer them the bedroom, given that the cabin belongs to Daisy, after all. Neither would hear of it.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere where I’ll walk into you and Martin being gross.” Basira says, and Jon is mortified when Martin heartily responds with “I absolutely agree.”</p><p>Martin starts to spend a lot of time in the attic sorting through the accumulated clutter. Jon thinks he ought to be glad that Martin has something to do at last rather than watching him, what did he call it, <em>wallow</em> in the world’s misery. Jon gets to be left in the bedroom with the tapes to continue grieving for a future lost, repeatedly rewinding a broken past. </p><p>Time no longer means anything, but that doesn’t mean it does not pass. Jon did not use to notice it. He currently finds himself glancing at the closed bedroom door, catching the discarded expectation that Martin ought to be trying to offer him a beverage that is only occasionally tea some time about now. If Jon calls for him, he knows, Martin would be happy to come downstairs and make him a cup. Jon does not. He can do this for himself. </p><p>Only Daisy is in the common room when he emerges. Basira is upstairs with Martin, ostensibly to warn him from accidentally uncovering things that are no longer what they are. Daisy is still weak and has trouble climbing up the ladder herself, though her condition is nowhere near as bad as it was after the Buried. She prefers to sit in front of the fire, watching it flicker.</p><p>They nod to each other as Jon crosses the house to the kitchen area. Jon pokes at the kettle – it feels hot, but upon pouring out the water he finds that it’s instead disappointingly lukewarm. After a moment, Daisy joins him at the kitchen counter.</p><p>“How’s the water?” she asks.</p><p>“Not hot enough. I’ll need to boil a new batch, if you want tea.”</p><p>“Tea made by Jonathan Sims. Now that I have to try.”</p><p>“I’ll get the kettle going.” </p><p>She wants to ask something, he can feel. There’s a distant part of him that thinks he should be telling her no, that there is nothing in these woeful times that she deserves to hear about, but they have both already been monsters that have walked the ruined earth, so he waits until she makes her decision.</p><p>“Do you still get hungry, Jon?”</p><p>That was… not a good question. “Sometimes. Well, no. But.” Jon pushes his teabag against the side of his cup with a spoon, watching the darkness curl outwards and eddy in the water.</p><p>Daisy picks up on his hesitation. She says, in her quiet manner, “Tell me about it.”</p><p>Jon sighs. “I don’t think I need to feed on statements any more. There is latent fear everywhere, and it is always being seen. I can <em>feel</em> it, all the damn time.” This morning he had watched Basira as she glanced involuntarily where a gap in the curtains exposed the blinking sky, and when she flinched it was like taking a small sip from a particularly rich expresso. </p><p>“I still dream, though.” He tells Daisy about his unwitting sojourns into other people’s waking nightmares. “I still can’t interact with anyone, and I’m not sure they would notice me anyway among the million other horrors in their lives. But, sometimes as I watch, I get a… craving. You know you don’t need it, but it’s there.”</p><p>The kettle whistles as it reaches a boil. Jon takes a mug from next to the sink – there will always be enough mugs, if you look next to the sink. When the kettle falls silent, Daisy is scuffing the floors with one socked foot.</p><p>“Yeah.” Her voice is low. “Me too.” </p><p>Jon knows. He can hear when the call echoes in her bones, too, and feel the way Daisy’s entire attention can be swallowed into a narrow focus directed at him, or Basira, or Martin. At those times, she would go completely still, save for slow, deep breaths, until her muscles are no longer seized with the reflex to pounce. He says, “You’re alright, I think.”</p><p>Daisy gives a small huff. “You reckon?”</p><p>“You know you won’t harm us. <em>We</em> know.”</p><p>She hums, a non-committal sound, though Jon senses she’s got the assurance she was looking for. They let a comfortable silence settle over them as Jon fixes the second cup of tea. When he pulls open the drawer to get another spoon, he recalls the scraps of fabric he kept there what seems like eons ago now.</p><p>“Oh, here.” He fishes them out. “I’m sorry, I cut these from your curtains, because. Well. I wasn’t sure if Jonah Magnus could see through them. For etymology reasons. Yes, fine–” He vaguely gestures in response to Daisy’s raised eyebrow, “I was overthinking. I know they’re safe now. Still, I didn’t want to destroy them, then. Thought you should be able to have them back.”</p><p>The bright, cheery cloth is like nothing Jon has seen in a long time. Daisy’s expression is thoughtful as she studies the delicate flowers deposited in her palm.</p><p>“I got those curtains from the village store, first time I was here,” she tells him. “Was looking for something that would block out light better, but then I saw these daisies and I thought. Why couldn’t I have something just a bit nice, for once. Stood there holding this bolt of fabric like an idiot for fifteen minutes. Lady at the counter gave me a discount.” </p><p>Jon says nothing. He had had his chance to explore the village during that fortnight of peace. Just because he knows what it has become doesn’t mean he has to address it.</p><p>“When you Take statements.” Daisy breaks the silence, “Must they be about the supernatural?” </p><p>Jon is a little startled at the change of topic. “Uhm. At this point, I don’t think so, no.”</p><p>“Do you have to speak the statement aloud?”</p><p>He wonders where Daisy is going with this. “Depends. If there is really nothing relating to the entities, then probably not.”</p><p>“I want you to know about how I came to have this house.” Daisy looks up, making direct eye contact with Jon. “But I don’t want to <em>tell</em> it to you. I don’t want to hear it out loud, either. Can you do that? For me?”</p><p>Her gaze is steady and calm. Jon somehow manages to stutter out, “I– Are you– Only if you’re sure. Completely sure.”</p><p>“Yeah, I am.”</p><p>Jon feels absolutely <em>floored</em>. “Okay. Okay. Statement– no, not a statement. Story of Daisy Tonner, regarding how she got this house.”</p><p>The tone of the static that rises between them is not familiar to Jon. It feels less harsh than usual, somehow. They both lean on the kitchen counter, listening to a quiet narration that does not sound quite like how Daisy speaks, more how she hears herself, and which does not use words.</p><p>“You alright?” Jon asks, as the static fades out. He pushes the second cup of tea towards Daisy, which is now at a drinkable temperature.</p><p>“Mhm.” Daisy accepts the cup. “I wanted you to understand how I used to be. How I can still be, sometimes. Basira does, but you don’t, and I wanted to make sure you do. Just in case, for next time.”</p><p>Jon can only nod. Daisy tastes her tea. “Hm.” She sounds surprised. “This’s actually not bad.” </p><p>The corner of Jon’s mouth twitches up involuntarily into a smile. “I couldn’t be cooped up with Martin for a month and not learn how to make tea.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Jon isn’t with them when the Hunters come. </p><p>This is something that will haunt him, afterwards – that long and terrible second between the intuition that <em>something’s wrong</em>, and the cold knowledge that <em>something is definitely wrong</em>, when he is suddenly unmoored by an awareness that, but for the tapes, he is completely alone, and he flails briefly trying to locate Martin, and Daisy, and Basira. A vertiginous plunge into uncertainty.</p><p>The scene before him as he bursts from the bedroom feels like a warped reflection, only there’s three people in the common room, not just Martin, and the howling shapes outside the window are so, so many more.</p><p>For a hot, searing moment Jon wonders if Julia and Trevor are <em>here</em>, then feels almost absurdly annoyed when he Knows that these are different Hunters. Some of them bear the mark of the Everchase. They were set loose into the world when the Change happened and their own Ritual collapsed like wrapping paper falling away from a gift. He’s not sure if this makes it worse.</p><p>“They’re not here for Jon,” Basira says before he can. She and Martin are backed up against the wall right under the window, while Daisy crouches in front of them defensively, teeth clenched. “They’re just passing through. We’re not their prey. If we just stay quiet, they’ll probably–”</p><p><em>Slam</em>.</p><p>Jon and Martin both startle as the front door shakes on its hinges. A gleeful shout pierces the air, which gets immediately taken up by another, and another, echoing from far too many throats all around the cabin. Daisy growls, low and rumbling. <em>Slam</em>. Again, from the front of the cabin, <em>slam</em>, <em>slam</em>, <em>slam</em>.</p><p>So. Definitely worse.</p><p>“Jon? You sure we’re safe in here?” Martin demands as Jon joins their huddle, their hands sliding into each other’s. </p><p>“I told you, I won’t let anything happen to you,” he whispers fiercely. “Not to anyone here. As long as I’m here, nothing can get in.”</p><p><em>Slam</em>. For the most fleeting of moments the door seems to splinter, shards exploding, then, impossibly, the wood wavers and bends and it is whole again, rattling hard. </p><p>“See.” Jon’s heart is in his throat. “We’re– we’re safe. They just want our fear, like everything else in this world, so… as long as we don’t feed them, stay calm, they will get bored and go away. Eventually.”</p><p>“Oh yes, sure, we can do that.” Basira says dryly. “Keep absolutely calm while evil eldritch werewolves try to bang down our unbreakable walls for sport. Sounds great, easy as pie, absolutely no problem whatsoever.”</p><p>“Do you have a better plan?”</p><p>Her eyes flit towards Daisy, then she looks away, face set. “… No,” she admits begrudgingly. </p><p>Jon hopes Daisy hadn’t seen that glance. It doesn’t matter, because in the next moment there is an unearthly howling from behind them, then– an ear-splitting <em>crash</em> of breaking glass, directly above and all of them flinch violently, although the window remains unperturbed. The curtains flap wildly in the incomprehensibly still air. </p><p>“Well, I’m not waiting.” Daisy gets up. “I’m making them leave.”</p><p>“What?!” Jon hisses. “<em>No</em>!”</p><p>Her limbs are already lengthening when she wrenches the door open with a snarl to match the wicked jaws that greet her, springing headfirst into the fray. The rest of them scramble, panicked, to their feet.</p><p>Basira reaches the door first, gun out and firing. She takes down the first two baying figures that get past Daisy, and Jon wrenches at the mind of the next one, tearing out a fearful scream, but there are already more – Martin flings a kitchen knife from the rack he’s brought over, and another, and one more, then yells in dismay when he finds that the ‘there will always be enough kitchen utensils’ rule apparently does not apply in this situation. Basira pulls out two guns from somewhere on her person.</p><p>“And <em>how</em> do we use these?” Martin shouts when nothing happens in response to the trigger.</p><p>“Oh for–” Basira shoves her own gun into Martin’s hands, clicks off the safety on the two new ones, hands one over to Jon. “Just don’t aim near Daisy.”</p><p>Much easier said than done when Daisy is barely a few arms lengths away, in the middle of a flurry of claws and teeth snapping. Despite being larger than most of the bodies around her, she is difficult to distinguish, mostly because her own rusty fur is difficult to see amongst the psychedelic iridescences of the Hunters. Jon gets glimpses of her familiarly fluorescent eyes, though he can’t tell if she has two or four of them. Her sharply tufted ears give an impression of a lynx, if lynxes had the long reptilian tail she is using to slash at her laughing attackers, who are getting more interested in the challenge Daisy presents than the three of them cowering in their doorway.</p><p>These Hunters are a taxonomical nightmare, cruel amalgams of beak and talon and incisors and fingernails and grasping coiling limbs, each like the last thing you could expect to see before you feel all your bones crunch. One of them looks mostly still human until they drop their jaw wide, <em>wide</em>, slim long teeth like a deep sea fish – Daisy screams gaping defiance to match and they are off, and Jon jerks his gun away before they topple into his line of fire. </p><p>Another bullet zings over their heads. Basira returns fire on the perpetrator, who goes down shrieking beneath a cloak that still has a face. His boots are caked in arctic slush and rainforest mud. The old-fashioned rifle that had tumbled from his hands gets picked up by another ex-runner of the Everchase, arms slick with viscera, but before he can raise it he disappears in a blossoming of red under the trampling feet of other Hunters eager to join in taking down their new target. </p><p>It’s only been a few heartbeats and it has been forever. Daisy already seems to be tiring. Jon watches helplessly in apparent slow-motion as the Hunters pile upon her, and a beast even larger than Daisy with a crocodilian mouth and lupine legs leaps high above the teeming mass, hurtling towards her–</p><p>And disappears through a line of yellow that materialises in mid-air. A series of yowls follows as Daisy and her aggressors drop through the ground, then more and more yellow doors open around them, snapping back into non-existence once Hunters fall or trip or get sucked through their thresholds.</p><p>“Helen?” Martin gapes. </p><p>“They were stealing my style,” she drawls from behind them. “Weird colours are <em>my</em> thing.”</p><p>They spin around. “Give her back!” Basira’s gun is already trained on Helen.</p><p>“Please, sweetheart. That silly thing is nothing compared to your own abilities.” Helen’s own doorway has replaced the bedroom door. She props herself on the doorframe by an elbow. “Patience. Your Daisy needs to lose her pursuers first. Unless you want me to drop the lot of them back on you now?”</p><p>“Then take me to her.” She starts forward, but is met by Helen’s outstretched palm.</p><p>“Would if I could! But no, you’re becoming more and more Beholding, and much faster than our dear Jon did at that, well <em>done</em>. Sadly, that means either of you entering my corridors would be <em>quite</em> uncomfortable for all of us. You’ll just have to wait.”</p><p>Basira grits her teeth. “Fine. But you get her out the moment she does. I’ll know.”</p><p>“Sure you will.” She smiles lazily. </p><p>“If this is over, I’m going to go be sick now.” Martin decides. </p><p>“Likewise.” Jon sets the gun down in a hurry. </p><p>“Oh don’t be like that. After I come all this way to see you?” Helen is cheerfully unfazed by their sullen looks. “Not even a thank you?”</p><p>“… Thanks, Helen.” Jon offers.</p><p>“Ah! Courtesy. Georgie was right, it is better to listen to Martin.”</p><p>Basira straightens up. “Georgie? You’ve seen Melanie and Georgie?” Jon feels a pang, remembering the last time he had seen them.</p><p>“How are they?” Martin asks.</p><p>“Just the question I was hoping for! I’m not here just to conveniently save my favourite apocalypse boyfriends, you know.” Helen ignores Basira’s muttered “Oh, so we don’t count.” while she fishes a comically large orange envelope with black edging, complete with stamp, from her pantsuit. “You’ve got mail.”</p><p>When Martin takes the envelope from her, it becomes a more normal piece of folded paper in his hands. Basira crowds in to read the letter over his shoulder, though she keeps looking back suspiciously at Helen.</p><p>Martin reads, saying, “They say they’re fine! So is the Admiral.” Oh god, Jon misses the Admiral so much. Then Martin gasps. “Melanie wants our help.” </p><p>“Take down Jonah Magnus, something about rescuing victims, <em>et cetera et cetera</em>.” Helen waves her hands dismissively. “She wanted to get to the Panopticon on her own, which was very cute. So here I am! The courier business is so delightful, I can see why those weird deliverymen stuck with it for so long.”</p><p>Jon is less sure that Breekon and Hope had the same reasons as Helen. “You have no qualms about this.”</p><p>“It’s certainly interesting. I’d like to see you try.” Helen steeples her long fingers under her chin. “You sure we all couldn’t have some tea, Martin?” </p><p>“I’m very, very tired, Helen.”</p><p>“Suit yourself. And that’s time! One Daisy Tonner, coming right up.” Helen neatly sidesteps as the huge, lynx-like creature that is Daisy lopes, half stumbling, out of the doorway. Basira rushes to catch her as she collapses. Helen simply waves after, and is gone with a sunny, “Be seeing you!” </p><p>“Jon, was that Helen’s version of an apology?” Martin’s brow furrows.</p><p>Jon shrugs, moving to grab a blanket for Daisy. “Maybe. Daisy, is she…”</p><p>“She’s hurt.” Basira can just about cradle Daisy’s head. Her flank is matted and streaked with blood, and she shivers as Jon drapes the blanket over her. “She won’t die. But. Daisy. Daisy, are you there?” Basira strokes Daisy’s forehead. “Please tell me you’re there. Please.” She chokes up. “Please.”</p><p>Belatedly, Jon thinks that he should step back and give her some privacy. Martin takes his hand and tugs it, and just then, Daisy moves. She begins to shrink, tail receding under the blanket, until her form is small and human in Basira’s lap. She opens her eyes, blinks.</p><p>“Hey.” She manages to crack a smile.</p><p>“You came back.” Basira’s whisper is barely audible.</p><p>“‘Course I did.” Daisy wraps her arm around her shoulders, gripping her tight. “‘Course I did.”</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Despite his worries, Jon can’t seem to stop himself from going back to the tapes. He concedes to leaving the bedroom door ajar now, so that he can hear the others and they can see him if they pass by, but if he is being honest, it doesn’t make a big difference. If anything, their new correspondence with Melanie and Georgie has got him doubling down on the rewind button, trying to make sense of the tapes, telling himself that he is looking for something, anything, that would help.</p><p>Mostly, he regrets. He clutches the tape recorder, watching tape rolls spin as missed voices wind down, thinking about missed chances, missed opportunities.</p><p>In life, Gerard Keay sounded so different from the shade Jon spoke to in a dingy hideout in America. Just as sardonic, but lighter, quick-witted in banter that just barely disguised how deeply he cared. Jon had not had the fortune to run into him burning Leitners in the courtyard in the couple of years they were both in the institute – the Eye shows him every moment they were this close to each other, if Jon had turned that corner instead, or stayed in that stairwell just a bit longer – but he thinks that even as he was, prickly and stuck-up, they might have gotten along. He thinks they could have been friends.</p><p>As it is, Gerry’s just the only one of his many ghosts he’s been allowed to bury. </p><p>Jon does not move to restart the tape. Above him, he can hear Basira shuffling around in the attic. Voices drift in from the crack in the bedroom door. Daisy and Martin.</p><p>“–been practising while you’re out there on guard. How does it work?”</p><p>“Dunno. Feels like I’m winging it, mostly, trying to feel my way between the call and the quiet.”</p><p>“But you’re still mostly you when you’re– ow, dratted needle.” The rustle of cloth is just audible beneath Martin’s voice.</p><p>“Animorphing?” Daisy supplies.</p><p>A chuckle. “If that’s what you’re calling it. How do you balance between yourself and the Hunt?”</p><p>He’s talking about Daisy’s shapeshifting. After the Hunters, she had taken to sitting just outside their front door, a sentinel against the world. Sometimes she shifts into her more bestial form and patrols the perimeter of the cabin, eerily reminiscent of the time before she returned to herself. It’s more for her own peace of mind than their actual safety, Jon suspects, but Martin and Basira seem glad of it anyway.</p><p>“… Why do you want to know?” There is discomfort in Daisy’s tone.</p><p>Martin responds resolutely, “I want to find a way to turn the world back.”</p><p>Gertrude’s words run through Jon’s mind, <em>No, </em>I<em> don’t think so</em>. </p><p>Martin continues, “Especially now that we have Melanie and Georgie, and maybe Helen? She’s at least willing to play postal service for us. Point being, we can’t end the apocalypse from here. I’m not leaving until Jon’s ready, but I want to be prepared, so, part of that means making sure I can protect myself out there and be helpful. All of you have these abilities, and I’m just… me. So it’s just, if even Basira is willing to accept spooky eye powers, then– then maybe I should try. The invisibility thing, at least.”</p><p>Jon nearly misses Daisy’s reply over the clamour of his internal panic. “That’s not the same thing,” she’s saying. “Basira thinks she is making the best of a bad situation. And me… the trick, is that I <em>am</em> the Hunt. I’m already my own monster, so I’m still me. Same as Basira is still Basira looking for her answers, and Jon is still Jon.” She sounds contemplative. “Thing is, the Hunt never ends, never lets go. There’s no escape, no silver bullet or eye-gouging. I just have to remind myself what’s really important. That’s all.”</p><p>Jon has to wait a long time for Martin to speak. </p><p>“The Lonely never completely disappears either, not really,” he says at last, much too light. Jon’s heart <em>wrenches</em>. “I thought I’d be rid of it when I got out with Jon, because it didn’t seem that unlike how Melanie did it. Just a different organ, given freely.” Martin’s laugh is choked. “But no. Leaving the Lonely is a choice I have to make every day.”</p><p>“That’s why you have to keep making it,” Daisy points out. “Because you get that choice.”</p><p>“I don’t see how that’s so different?”</p><p>“You’re a better person for making it. The rest of us, we’re just doing the same things we were before. Not you, though. You care so much even when we didn’t return it. That made you vulnerable to the Lonely, but it also means the Lonely is not who you <em>are</em>.”</p><p>There’s a loud sniffle from Martin. Jon agrees fervently.</p><p>“Plus, we need to stay together now more than ever, and the Lonely won’t let you do that. You know this. I know you thought you were helping, but you weren’t.” Daisy is relentless. “I’m not letting you make that mistake again. Particularly ‘cause it would make Jon sad, and if you do that again I <em>will</em> have to kill you.”</p><p>A choking noise. “Daisy,” Martin sounds incredulous, “You’re not seriously giving me the shovel talk <em>right now</em>?”</p><p>“Seems like it.” Jon knows this tone well, because it goes with the grin Daisy uses to threaten him into food-based meals – one that strongly suggests she eats sharks for breakfast.</p><p>Martin just sighs. “Fair enough.” He clears his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for how I treated you when I was… well, back then. You had changed, but I didn’t accept that, and I took advantage of it anyway. I was a complete prick. And you’re right. I don’t want to be that person again.”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Daisy says, surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to.”</p><p>There’s a gap where neither of them talk, when only shifting cloth can be heard, then Martin says, “Think you’re missing a piece there, under the sleeve.”</p><p>“Bugger. Here’s the thing TV never shows you about being a werewolf, patching up all your clothes after you explode out of them.”</p><p>“I think you’re more of a werecat, actually?” </p><p>“Eh, same difference.” There is the shuffling of a person getting up, then footsteps, coming closer. Jon scrambles back a little guiltily as Daisy sticks her head through the doorway.</p><p>“Moping hours are over, Jon, shop’s closed.” (“Don’t be mean!” comes Martin’s voice, mock dismayed) “How’s your sewing?”</p><p>“Uh–”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter.” Daisy doesn’t wait for Jon to answer. “Just need a shirt put together, ’s long as it’s the right shape. Come on, up you get.”</p><p>One of Jon’s legs had fallen asleep without him noticing, so he has to awkwardly shuffle as he follows Daisy out into the common room. Martin gives him a fond smile from where he is cross-legged on the floor, most of a pair of cargo pants assembled on his lap. There’s no sign of the Martin who sounded on the verge of tears mere moments ago. </p><p><em>We’ve got each other</em>, Jon reminds himself. <em>This goes both ways</em>. So he walks over and lightly drops a kiss on the top of Martin’s head before joining him on the floor, leaning into his shoulder. Martin beams and pets his hair.</p><p>“Get out,” Daisy says, but she’s grinning. “Heaven forbid Basira see you two being sappy.”</p><p>“Too late!” calls Basira from above them. “I’m never leaving the attic again, this is my home now, Daisy save me from the primordial horror of affection.”</p><p>Their laughter sounds in the space around them, alive, and something soft unspools from Jon’s chest. He decides to let himself accept it, just for a little while.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Jon starts joining Basira and Martin in the attic. He brings the tape recorder along sometimes, which earns him sullen glares from Basira and a worried look from Martin. Even though he never uses it while he’s with them, never even touches it beyond setting it down behind him when he sits and picking it up when he leaves, it brings him an awful sense of security which some days he is loath to part with just as much as he resents it.</p><p>Today, he’s managed to bear leaving the recorder stashed under the bed. This, he reflects, might have been a mistake, because it makes the others cheerful enough to start swapping terrible stories about him. </p><p>“He told me it’s in the drawer,” Basira recounts, while she attempts to sort loose atlas pages that have been laid out on the blanket she’s sitting on, “So I open it, and guess what? Instead of a pen, the drawer just contains a jar of ashes, and a <em>bone</em>. And all he had to say about it is ‘That’s my rib.’ What kind of explanation is <em>that</em>?”</p><p>“Jon either doesn’t explain enough or explains too much, there’s no middle ground.” Martin laughs. “My first birthday after we transferred to the archives, Tim brought us out for ice cream, and <em>this man</em> spent the entire time just talking about emulsifiers.”</p><p>“I– I was nervous, okay?” Jon attempts a defence. “I had no idea how I was supposed to not talk about work with any of you and I just, panicked.”</p><p>“I thought it was very engaging.” Martin pats his arm with the hand not presently holding a grimy kerosene lamp.</p><p>Jon lifts his eyes to the roof, silently begging for release. “Can we maybe not talk about my awkward social skills.”</p><p>“We were just ribbing you.” Basira says, perfectly flat. Jon groans. Martin erupts with a delighted “Ha!”, at which Basira allows the corner of her mouth to quirk upwards just slightly. </p><p>“So, any fun stories about Daisy?” Martin asks Basira. Jon spares a moment to check Daisy’s whereabouts – she’s still sitting on their front step, fiddling with the bracelet she had sewn from the embroidered scrap fabric Jon had returned her.</p><p>“Oh. Uhm. She once spent half an hour in the police car explaining exactly why killing off Grace Archer back in the 1950s was a bad narrative decision and the impact of that scandal on British television. We got to the site – turned out to be a simple break-in, nothing that needed sectioning – and once she put the cuffs on the guy she got right back into it. The look on his face.”</p><p>“I still can’t believe Daisy likes the Archers.” Martin marvels.</p><p>Jon grumbles, “You’d quickly start if you ever had dinner in the pantry with us.”</p><p>His brain belatedly catches up to his words. “No–” he scrambles, seeing the upset droop of Martin’s shoulders. Jon keeps ruining everything. “I mean–”</p><p>“It’s okay.” Martin doesn’t look at him. “It’s true, I wasn’t there.”</p><p>“Oh stop it,” Basira interrupts. “Don’t you dare start doing the avatar guilt spiel too. At least you had a perfectly good reason. Yes, don’t look so shocked. Trying to protect us from Lukas was sensible at least, if not ridiculously self-sacrificing. You know who else wasn’t there? <em>Me</em>.”</p><p>Jon objects. “You were–”</p><p>“Not there often enough,” she retorts.</p><p>“You were trying to help us too, in your own way.” Martin cautiously restarts his efforts at cleaning the kerosene lamp.</p><p>“Not really,” Basira says, brusque. “Mostly, I wanted to get out of there. I couldn’t stand being around Jon, Melanie wouldn’t look me in the face, and Daisy– I felt like I didn't understand her anymore. I wanted my partner, my equal. I wanted the Daisy who always knew what to do, but I also wanted her to be good, and there she was telling me that barely being able to <em>walk</em> was better? So I tried to resolve that with a blank slate. Essentially telling myself, and her too, that everything she had done before wasn’t <em>her</em>, that she wasn’t responsible, and now it was my job to be responsible in her stead. At some point, I forgot to think of her as an equal.”</p><p>Her face appears as placid as before, but she holds her hands tightly in her lap, knuckles white. “I didn’t do right by her, and didn’t realise that until it was too late, when I thought that the only time I would see her again would be to kill her, and looked for her anyway.”</p><p>She finally seems to remember to breathe. Martin’s stunned expression matches Jon’s own.</p><p>“Avatar guilt spiel?” Martin points out weakly.</p><p>“Fine.” She throws her hands in the air. “If we’re all doing this. I heard what Daisy told you the other day. I don’t want her to be someone she doesn’t want to be either, and yet there she is, practising shapeshifting and telling you she’s a monster. You know she sometimes sleeps transformed now? If that’s what she is, if she has given up her humanity for us, then <em>did we deserve that sacrifice</em>?”</p><p>The question hovers in the air. Jon has never been so frustrated with the Beholding’s apparent capriciousness in granting answers, but then he supposes that if he did get one for this, it wouldn’t be anything good.</p><p>“Have you talked to Daisy about that?” Martin ventures.</p><p>“Of course I have. She just keeps telling me it’s okay and not to worry about her. You’d think she’d–“ Basira pauses, then shakes her head a little. “No. She already knows what we’re worth to her. It’s just, if using her abilities makes her a monster, then…” her voice drops. “What does that make me?”</p><p>Martin hesitates, looks towards Jon. The irony does not escape him. He remembers every time Martin has defended him to himself, even if he’s still having trouble in believing it. Still, Basira had not wanted Jon’s opinion ever since the effects of his avatarhood had become evident, which means he is taken by surprise when she huffs and says, “Jon, you’re not saying something extremely loudly. Out with it.”</p><p>“Uhm. Well. The thing with being an avatar, as I was told, is that none of us get to where we are by accident. There’s a choice. It might not feel like one, given the alternative, but at some point, you had to choose.”</p><p>Basira frowns. “Do you know why I did?”</p><p>A stabbing pain, a shriek like microphone feedback, and Jon finds himself doubled over and clutching his head. Martin is holding his shoulders, shocked. “Jon!”</p><p>“It’s… I’ll be fine. In a bit.” Jon takes deep breaths as the static whinging recedes. He holds his hand out to stop Basira before she asks the obvious question. “An Eye cannot see into itself. You just compelled me to know your own Beholding-related trauma– I know you didn’t mean to. We’re two parts of one Eye, and– and I consume, and you reveal, but it seems Knowing thyself is, ha, too recursive. I just got the brunt of the resulting error message.”</p><p>Jon pats Martin’s knee in an attempt at reassurance as he sits back up. Basira’s expression looks like she’s wrestling between anger, upset, and… guilt? It sits unfamiliarly on the downward slope of her brow. </p><p>“It’s kind of obvious anyway.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “It was for Daisy.”</p><p>Basira nods carefully. “There’s not a lot I wouldn’t do for her. She’s my <em>partner</em>. Not,” she looks between Martin and Jon, “in the way you two have. But in every way it matters to us.” She pulls the map lowest in the stack in front of her and starts to fold it, matching the edges together meticulously and precisely. “Doesn’t that– well, we made ourselves into monsters, gave up ourselves for each other.”</p><p>“That’s the thing, though.” Jon presses on. “You didn’t. This is the choice we made, but whatever it is we gave up then, I don’t think it’s humanity, not anymore. After all, we still love.” Jon feels Martin’s grip on his hand get slightly tighter. “I don’t think Daisy is right. She’s not a monster, and neither are you.”</p><p>Basira just looks at him. Jon does not understand her expression anymore. Then, she turns back down to the maps. “If you can believe that of us, Jon, then you’ve got to believe it of yourself.”</p><p>“I’ll… I’ll try. I’m trying.” Jon takes the cleaned kerosene lamp from Martin, fiddling with its handle. “It’s not completely bad. At least, not for Daisy. Must be nice to be a very large cat sometimes.”</p><p>Martin hums. “I’ll bet she’s a good pillow.”</p><p>“She does have very soft fur,” Basira admits.</p><p>With the tension lifted somewhat, Jon feels better about finishing his point. “What matters is what you do with your abilities. And you’ve chosen to use them to save the one you love.”</p><p>“And maybe,” Martin suggests, “We could also try to do some good for the world?”</p><p>Basira almost laughs at that. “You’re a very persistent salesperson, Martin. No, I’m not completely on board with you and Melanie’s madcap plan to murder Jonah Magnus yet.”</p><p>This is news to Jon. “I thought that’s what you’re up here for.”</p><p>“I’m here to salvage the attic. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared.” She folds up the last of the maps. “It’s dangerous out there. Before we even reach Jonah Magnus, there’s that whole wasteland of horrors in between, and it’s not like we’ve had a great track record with confrontation. I want to keep us safe. In a real, concrete way, for once. And so far, we are, as long as we stay inside this cabin. No one can hurt us here.”</p><p>Jon is reminded of another conversation, who knows how long ago. <em>It’s quiet here, and I have you</em>. Martin leans towards him.</p><p>“But I’m thinking about it.” She dusts off her skirts. “Well, guess I’m done. Martin, you want to do your spiel too?”</p><p>Martin looks surprised. “Nope, I’m good, thanks.”</p><p>“Okay, then it’s time for prayers.” Basira decides abruptly. “Out you go.”</p><p>“Time is–”</p><p>“Doesn’t work, irrelevant, whatever Jon. It’s time when I say it is. Shoo!”</p><p>Martin and Jon scurry to the trapdoor. While Jon waits for Martin to climb down the ladder, Basira Looks briefly into the distance, scowls, and readjusts the direction of the tattered blanket she had been sitting on. </p><p>“Should we close the trapdoor?” calls Martin.</p><p>“No need.”</p><p>Jon doesn’t understand how Basira can still pray. She doesn’t do it particularly consistently, but the fact that she does at all in this world he’s ruined seems like an impossible feat, more so even than Martin’s patience, or Daisy’s kindness. What she has is not entirely faith – this cracked foundation she’s building is something both far more complicated and immeasurably simpler at the same time, that Jon entirely fails to grasp. </p><p>Whatever it is, he envies her for it.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Later, lying in bed, Jon comes back to himself much too gradually for his liking. His dreams this time had taken him to a massive tree draped in white, twitching cocoons. The people inside moan through mouths stuffed with soft cotton, struggling feebly, almost reluctantly, against their comforting bonds. The tree cradled them, dissolved them, remade them anew. The many cuts in its wide trunk steadily dripped a dark, viscous liquid, and below the ground its roots writhed. </p><p>He counts them off. Web, Buried, flavoured with Corruption and Flesh, insofar as these distinctions are relevant anymore. Urgh. He would suspect that the Beholding is taking a perverse pleasure in showing him his very least favourite entities, if not for his opinion that all of them are his very least favourite entities. He turns to Martin, who is still deep in the throes of sleep. Martin always has the same dream, and Jon can never wake him. He tries anyway. He still fails. </p><p>Bereft of solace, Jon tosses and turns, haunted by stray fears. Eventually, he gets up and goes to the living room. </p><p>Basira and Daisy are curled up together in the middle of the floor. Daisy has her face in her paws, the exact same way Jon remembers the Admiral sleeping in his favourite spot on Georgie’s radiator. Her tail flicks against Basira’s hip, whose face is partially hidden behind one magnificently furry ear and is gently scratching the side of Daisy’s neck.</p><p>Basira notices Jon immediately even in the unlit room. He must look especially terrible, he thinks, because all she does is to incline her head slightly. Jon takes the invitation and sits down on Daisy’s other side, leaning against her broad soft back. He feels a low rumble emanating through her warm body. She’s purring.</p><p>They stay like that for a long while, before the bedroom door quietly clicks open. Martin’s form is silhouetted briefly in the doorway before he closes it. Daisy lets out a huff. Martin freezes, but then Jon silently reaches out a hand, and he relaxes. He tip-toes his way across to them and carefully lies down next to Jon. Basira is already asleep, breathing gently.</p><p>“Did you know that you have eye shine?” he whispers to Jon. “You look like a cat.”</p><p>“That makes two of us then,” Jon whispers back. Daisy makes a quiet <em>mrr</em>.</p><p>Martin’s smile is soft against the crook of Jon’s neck. Jon listens to the peaceful breathing all around, thinks of Georgie and Melanie somewhere in London, all of them still here, persisting. He closes his eyes.</p><p><br/>
</p><p>—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—&lt;o&gt;—</p><p><br/>
</p><p>Jon should have guessed that their tenuous peace wouldn’t last. One moment he is listening to the tapes, the next there is a tidal pressure against his mind and words spill from him. <em>It is time that I emerge.</em> Jon whacks his head against the bedpost when he stands up involuntarily and yelps, causing the static to recede and Martin to rush into the bedroom.</p><p>“Jon? Is it– I thought I heard– are you– are you okay?” Martin catches Jon’s hand where he has lifted it to the slight throbbing in his head and examines his scalp.</p><p>“Yes, I… I think so.”</p><p>There’s a clanging noise and they both hear Daisy call “Basira?”, then “Woah!” when Basira almost collides into her as she practically drops out of the ceiling.</p><p>“What the hell was that?” Basira demands of Jon, brandishing an unfamiliar tape recorder at him.</p><p>“I… I’m not– sort of like a statement, but not really? It just all came out, into the tapes–”</p><p>“You’re recording again?” Martin interjects at the same time as Daisy, “Basira, what happened?”</p><p>Basira takes a deep breath before she explains. She had, coincidentally or otherwise, been thinking about Melanie and Georgie’s offer when the tape recorder had manifested. She does not detail the exact words she spoke into it, but Jon can hear them anyway. </p><p>“And you got the same thing?” Martin asks. Jon nods, a squeezing feeling in his chest from simultaneous guilt at having the knowledge, and overwhelming relief that truly, every word had been identical, down to <em>the ones you love</em>.</p><p>He was never sure of whether she still retains any affection for Martin or himself from their early acquaintance, or if she only tolerates them for Daisy’s sake. To be categorised as family is much more than he could have hoped for.</p><p>“Jon.” Basira taps her elbow, arms crossed. “How can we trust what the Beholding shows us? I know it’s not in its nature to lie, but still, can we really believe it?”</p><p>Daisy is the one to respond. “You cut this off the curtains, right Jon?” She lifts her wrist, where the fabric circlet of her namesake hangs.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“They’re not the same colour.”</p><p>They all look between the embroidered yellow cotton and the heavy maroon curtains. Before Jon can stop him, Martin goes over to poke at one curtain experimentally. It comes away stickily in his hand. He grimaces.</p><p>“I’ll take it.” Basira uncrosses her arms. “We’ll go.”</p><p>“I might need to keep recording,” Jon says cautiously, “If we’re going to make it.”</p><p>“Back to the archives?” Martin lights up, looking between Jon and Basira.</p><p>“We should meet with the others first, but after that, yes.” Basira says.</p><p>“Seems like a good place to start.” Jon agrees. </p><p>“Oh!” Martin reels off his list of the things he had prepared for all them as he returns to his seat in front of Jon, who can’t help the fond smile that takes over his face as he describes the tea contingencies. Basira gives an exasperated little sigh, while Daisy simply gets up the ladder to pass the packs downstairs. Martin blinks a little when she drops two of them into their laps.</p><p>“We’ve got this,” Daisy states.</p><p>“Apparently so.” Jon takes Martin’s hand. Martin flushes.</p><p>They double check through the contents, though Martin has already been extremely comprehensive. He asks Jon, “Do you think it’ll do anything?” quietly, so neither Basira nor Daisy hear their ensuing conversation from where they are collecting the remaining canned food from the kitchen cabinets. Jon finds it reassuring when he says, “Let’s find out,” and then realises that he was barely even thinking of Gertrude.</p><p>“You taking that?” Daisy’s voice interrupts them. Jon looks over to catch Basira sliding her new tape recorder into her pocket.</p><p>“If Jon thinks it helps.” Basira says evenly.</p><p>“We might need to… vent.” Jon elects to ignore Basira’s eye-roll at his word choice.</p><p>Daisy and Martin share an unfathomable look. “Okay.” Martin exhales.</p><p>The cabin creaks suspiciously loudly when he follows up with suggesting its destruction, which really should have warned all of them when they approach the front door with their packs and it <em>bangs</em>, even though it had been well shut, and suddenly it is crowded with far too many bolts and locks. An ominous dark descends over the room as they turn around to find the walls looming alarmingly closer, the bedroom door and attic ladder both gone.</p><p>“Let us out!” Jon yells. The creaking just gets sharper, chalk on blackboard. Daisy winces as she claps her hands over her ears.</p><p>Basira makes to slam her fists on the door and instead meets the stone of the fireplace. They all jump back from the sudden flare of heat. The exit is to their left now, but when Martin starts towards it the room reorientates again in a dizzy rush. </p><p>“We will <em>not be entombed. You cannot imprison us</em>.” Jon’s threat takes on a bass crackle of layered static. The cabin’s creaking is more of an insistent whine now. The door starts to violently shiver in its frame.</p><p>He finds words in his mouth. “<em>It is Not the Watcher’s Will.</em>” The door rattles even more vehemently, like it is caught in a hurricane, but stays desperately shut.</p><p>Jon is moving forward, except Daisy and Basira have each caught his shoulders, more warning than restraint but enough to give him pause. Instead, it is Martin who addresses the cabin.</p><p>“We won’t do anything to you while on our way out. Please?”</p><p>The door trembles. Then, as if giving up some great struggle, it swings slowly open, now bare of locks.</p><p>“Thank you.” Martin breathes out as they cross the threshold.</p><p> </p><p>He wastes no time in setting the cabin alight. </p><p>“That was cold, Blackwood.” Daisy seems amused. The whole structure had ignited unnaturally rapidly from a single kerosene lamp smashed against a wall. The cracking of collapsing flaming wood sounds rather like screaming.</p><p>“I did say not <em>while</em> we left.” Martin shrugs, returning Jon’s pickpocketed lighter.</p><p>Jon has to admit that part of him aches to see the cabin burning. The cabin had sheltered some of his darkest moments, his deepest despair, but it also bore precious moments of connection, even after it changed. The taint cast on these memories by insidious doubt and fear cannot undermine that they were genuine.</p><p>“That was extremely risky.” Basira frowns. “But worth it. Didn’t realise how good it would be to be out of there.” Jon does feel lighter, as though alleviated from a pressure just lifted and able to hear clearly for the first time in ages.</p><p>“Well.” Daisy good-naturedly ruffles Jon’s hair. “If you say you can’t fight the world, we’ll fight it for you.”</p><p>Martin giggles at his scowl. Jon can’t possibly pretend to ignore the glow of affection in his heart in the face of that, so he breaks into a grin and returns a friendly bump to Daisy. She stumbles a little into Basira, who, surprisingly, starts laughing, and then they’re all laughing together, free and relieved and buoyant with joyous camaraderie.</p><p>“Come on.” Daisy gives a final huff, and hefts her pack. “Let’s go.”</p><p>They turn away, and start the long walk to London.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was mostly written between episodes 164-169, and was finally pulled out of edit limbo when it seemed that the episode for the Hunt was imminent. I love Daisy a lot, and await the crushing of my heart whenever we find out what has happened to her.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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